


Favorite

by Albiona



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Languages and Linguistics, One Shot, Secrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-05
Updated: 2014-11-05
Packaged: 2018-02-24 04:40:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2568515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Albiona/pseuds/Albiona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Porthos meets a woman in a tavern, learns some Spanish, gets a kiss and then an unhappy surprise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Favorite

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Seascribe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seascribe/gifts).



Returning from the bar with four pints, Porthos wove between tables and stepped out of the aisle to let a short woman with dark hair pass him. He placed a carefully polite smile on his face, but as she came nearer she faced him, moving sideways past him, and lifted her wide blue eyes to his. His jaw slackened and a true smile came forward. She kept his gaze, just a hint of amusement on her left side. A lock curled at her jaw, mimicking the high corner of her lips. He was watching it when she straightened her shoulders and continued on, her eyes remaining on his until the last moment.

He stepped one pace forward, watched her veer left, putting her back to the door and facing the fireplace. She glanced back at him, and away.

Porthos set the drinks on the table, separated them for his friends but didn’t sit. Instead, he took a long swallow from one tankard and, clearing his throat, winked at Aramis. He wound his way back across the room, to where the woman had perched herself near the fireplace.

“Do you mind if I join you?” he asked. She bit on her lower lip, hiding a grin, and shook her head. He smiled at her and, for something to do with his hands, propped one on the wall and leaned his weight against it. She angled herself toward him and stepped sideways, into the pocket beside his body. Porthos grinned.

“What’s your name, love?”

She blinked up at him with the same small smile, but made no motion that he might interpret as an answer.

“No name?” he asked. “Too shy? I promise, I won’t bite. Not unless you want me to.”

He chuckled and, a beat behind, she let out a light breath like a laugh.

“Come on,” he encouraged. “What’s your name?”

Biting her lip again, gently, she shook her head.

The musketeer wasn’t smiling anymore, but no emotion replaced the fading cheer. He cast a look behind him, at the table with his friends.

“You know, I’m beginning to think you don’t want me around after all,” he said.

She shook her dark hair a little. 

“España,” she said.

Porthos frowned down at her.

“Sorry?”

“Hablo Español.” 

His frown deepened.

“De España,” she said again, lifting her chin a little.

“You’re from Spain?” he asked, raising his eyebrows. She nodded.

“Sí. De España.”

“Ah,” his eyes found their way back to the table. Even Athos was watching them. Well, him.

“¿Como te llama?”

“Sorry,” he said. “I don’t speak Spanish.”

Cocking her head to one side, she fixed her gaze on his left eye and lifted her far hand, touching her chest.

“Isabella,” she said. “Me nombre es Isabella.” Moving her hand to his chest, a firm pressure above his heart, she said, “¿Como tu nombre?”

When he didn’t answer, just looked down at her hand and back up to her eyes, she pressed her fingers over her own heart again. “Isabella,” she said. She replaced her hand on his chest and waited.

“Porthos,” he said, eyes clearing with understanding. She smiled and his own grin slid into place.

“Por-tos,” she said, rolling the ‘r’ considerably. He shook his head and said it again. She watched his lips, then met his eyes and tried again. “Por-thos.”

He nodded. She said it again, smoothing out the syllables. He placed his hand on hers, still on his chest, nodding. Her eyes warmed into his and she said his name again. He leaned forward.

She shifted her weight to her right foot and looked past his shoulder to the table.

“¿Tus amigos?” she asked. He followed her gaze.

“Yeah. Those are my friends,” he affirmed.

“¿Como se nombres?” she asked. He frowned. She took her hand back. “Isabella,” she indicated herself. She indicated him. “Porthos.” She gestured to the table.

He nodded slowly, understanding and pleased with himself, but not fond of the turn in conversation.

Pointing to the table, then to the far right, to indicate the farthermost man, he said, “That one’s Aramis. Aramis.”

She looked down his finger, drawing a breath closer to his wide chest.

“Arah-mus.”

He smirked and repeated the name. She got it right after two more tries. When she did, she repeated it once more and drew her thumb and forefinger down her jaw to her chin, mimicking Aramis’s beard, even rubbing the pads of her fingers together at the point of her chin to indicate the curl.

“That’s him,” said Porthos, nodding. Grinning she looked past her companion, lifting onto her toes to do so, and then back at him.

He leaned further into the wall, conspiratorially, and pointed to Athos, saying his name.

Having mastered the ‘th’ from Porthos’s name, she got “Athos” on her second try and pulled her eyebrows low, exaggerating a frown. “Athos,” she repeated, then cleared her features with delight.

Her companion laughed. “You’ve got ‘im figured, yeah,” he said. “Athos. The surly one.”

She grinned and tilted her head toward the last man at the table. Porthos licked his lips.

“D’Artagnan,” he said.

She squinted at him and licked her own lips but didn’t try it.

“D’Artagnan,” he repeated.

“D’Ar-tan-own,” she said.

He chuckled and she tried again. When she’d gotten it right, she feigned touching her hair with a serious expression and one quirked eyebrow that disappeared as she said the youngest man’s name again. Porthos laughed heartily. “Right. With the pretty hair.”

He took her far hand in his.

“Tus amigos,” she said nodding to the men. “Aramis. Athos. D’Artagnan. Amigos.”

He nodded again. “Yeah. They’re my friends.”

“Amigos,” she repeated.

“Amigos,” he said to please her.

It did. Her expression open, Isabella looked down at his glove, up over his left shoulder, and back to his hand. Shaking it side to side and shifting half a step nearer she said, “Mano.”

The Musketeer frowned again.

Placing it between both of hers, she lifted his hand into their view.

“Mano,” she said.

“Mano,” he repeated. “Hand?”

“Sí.” She lifted it to her lips and, without breaking his gaze, kissed the fingers covering hers. “Beso.”

He watched her.

Lifting to her toes, she stepped forward and he could smell her hair, feel her warmth.

She placed a lingering, clean kiss on his cheek.

“Beso,” she breathed before withdrawing.

His grin slid into something roguish. 

“Beso,” he said, drawing her hands to his mouth and kissing the top of each.

“Sí,” she nodded. Leveling a serious look upon him, she cast her head warily to one side. He sobered and matched her look.

Isabella lifted his hand and waited.

“Mano,” he said.

She kissed it sharply and returned to her pointed look.

“Beso.”

Smiling sunshine onto him she pulled herself up by his shoulders to kiss his cheek in reward. 

As she pulled back Porthos tucked his chin and found her lips with her own. Isabella let him kiss her just a moment, then withdrew, smiling, to lean again on the wall.

He breathed deeply, still able to discern her scent, and opened his eyes.

Her eyes stood wide, pointing past him, and she blinked and was back with him, pleasant again.

She took his hand back.

“Beso,” she said and kissed his fingers, slow and crisp. Checking to make sure she had his full attention, she said, “Besito” and smacked a quick kiss to the same spot. She repeated “-ito” and put another quick kiss on his hand. “Besito.”

He lifted her hand.

“Beso,” he kissed her hand and let his whiskers skate across the dark skin, earning him a shiver. “Besito,” he pecked a kiss to the same place.

Nodding, Isabella leaned back again. Porthos lifted his hand into the air.

“Mano,” Portos said. Taking hers by the wrist, gently, he flattened it against his own. “Manito.”

She considered and shrugged one shoulder.

“Bueno,” she said.

A pale hand slapped onto Porthos’s shoulder. She watched him roll his eyes then roll out, away from her, a retort on his mouth that died. He straightened.

“Captain,” he said, nodding to his superior. Treville spare him a glance.

“You have a new friend, Porthos?”

“Uh, this is Isabella. She doesn’t speak French.”

“Of course she does.”

Porthos frowned at him and glanced between them, apologetically to the woman staring at Treville, her chin as low as it’d been when Porthos had first joined her by the fire.

“Captain, she’s from Spain. She doesn’t speak French.”

Aramis drew near by their open side.

Treville watched the woman. “She may live in Spain but she was born here. In Paris.”

Aramis caught Porthos’s expression behind their leader’s head.

“Captain,” said Aramis. “You’re just in time for a drink. Won’t you join us?”

D’Artagnan rose and Athos, lifting his eyes to heaven, followed suit. Seeing them come to the backs of their fellow Musketeers, the woman’s bewilderment fell away.

“Don’t be angry with Porthos, Captain,” said the woman in perfect French. “Two men who want to kill me were in the tavern. Porthos was helping me hide.”

Her once-companion gaped and fury boiled into his features.

“Of course he did not know that’s what he was doing,” Treville answered.

“Did you not hear me say that people wanted to kill me?” she returned, her hands sliding to her hips.

“I did. Why?”

“And who are you really?” said Porthos.

She faced him.

“My name truly is Isabella. My father—”

Treville cut her off, “Why are men trying to kill you?”

Athos and Aramis exchanged high-browed looks.

She breathed heavily once with her hands still on her hips.

“You knew my father better than anyone,” she answered gently. “I am my father’s daughter.”

He shoved away from them, hands on his own hips. He looked across the room in silence she carried in open hands. Even as the older man stood, his blue cape draped across one shoulder, she did ache to be held by him. He is the last person like a father in the world to her. 

“It’s over now,” she offered.

“Except,” said Athos, “for the men who want you dead.”

“They won’t be able to reach me in Madrid.”

“Who were they?” said Treville.

“Red guard.”

“The Cardinal?” he hissed, coming very near to her. “Isabella.”

“I know what I am doing,” she answered him. When he didn’t answer, she said to the Porthos, “I do thank you. You helped me tremendously. And I am sorry that I lied to you.”

He glared at her so darkly that she swallowed and stepped near. He lifted his chin away. And she stopped.

“Interesting,” said Athos, “that when threatened by members of the Red Guard, you chose a Musketeer to flirt with.”

“Is it? Musketeers have always been my favorites. Treville can tell you.”

“I can,” he owned. “I used to be your main one. When you were a girl.”

“You still are my favorite,” she grinned, reaching for his hand. He sighed and let her near. She lay both hands on his arm and he tapped her top hand with reluctant affection.

“You should leave Paris. I’ll ride with you to the port.”

“Of course, I would be glad for your company, but I don’t need you to. And I don’t know that you should risk being seen with me. This,” she gestured in the space between them, “would look like a simple interrogation.”

“You’ll be safer with me,” Treville answered.

“You’re too well-known to hide near Paris,” she returned. “I’ll go on my own.”

“You won’t,” answered Athos, apparently in the captain’s stead. He cast his sullen gaze across her, then back to his leader. “I shall accompany her.”

By chance, Isabella caught Porthos’s eye and mimed her Athos-face to him but he did not smile. The crinkle of pain in her eyes nearly made him relent.

“You don’t need to do that, Athos,” said Treville. 

“If she’s important to you, I will see her safely out of France. She’s right. It’s too risky for you to be seen in the company of an enemy of the Cardinal.”

D’Artagnan shifted his weight, crossing his arms. “I’ll go, too.”

Aramis watched his silent friend, waiting. Soon they all were. It was up to Porthos. Aramis wouldn’t leave him alone.

“Perhaps,” the romantic said finally, “we should check for guards before you go.”

“Why?” Porthos asked. Aramis had taken his breath to respond before he realized that Pothos hadn’t been speaking to him.

The woman, barely coming to Treville’s shoulder, slipped a tiny smile.

“Athos would never whisper with a woman in the corner of a tavern. D’Artagnan might, but you are much taller and broader than he is. He’d have offered me almost no cover at all. Aramis wouldn’t have been content to stay standing. He would have wanted to find somewhere more private, or to go for a walk. Besides, I like your smile. I wanted to see it again.”

Porthos’s eyes no longer held the vehemence but still Isabella wondered that he took her deception so to heart. She would have been gone and Porthos distracted again by now if Treville had not happened upon them and recognized her. Finally, the great Porthos puffed out an exasperated breath.

“I’ll check the street,” he said. When he and Aramis had gone, she stepped forward and hugged Treville, slipping her arms beneath his cloak as she’d done when a child. There aren’t many places a spy can feel safe anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
